Fallen Angel
by DeadstarBliss
Summary: After jumping off a building to save Sherlock, John outed himself as an angel. Now, it's Sherlock's turn to save John when a certain someone finds out about Sherlock's angelic companion.
1. Chapter 1

Fallen Angel

Chapter 1

To see a sunrise from above the clouds is a truly spectacular thing, and something that one John Watson has had the privilege to see more than once. A flock of seagulls flew alongside John, screeching and wheeling in a show of acrobatics. He'd been flying for a few hours now. Sherlock was out on a case the night before and without the usual sounds of life emanating from the living room, like pacing or Sherlock's violin serenading the still air at three in the morning, he'd found it difficult to sleep.

The sky began to lighten and he knew that soon the sun would begin to peek over the clouds. John decided he should head back to London. Using the updrafts from the sea, he began a lazy ascent to the higher levels of the atmosphere and entered a jet stream. The high speed wind carried him across British countryside until he began to see the outskirts of London. John exited the jet stream and made his way over London to Baker Street, all in the hopes that, as of yet, London's inhabitants would still be sleeping and wouldn't spot him.

John landed softly on the balcony outside his window, and once he had his feet planted firmly on the ground, crawled through his window. The muscles around his shoulders and back burned in a pleasant way, like after a particularly good run. His chest and wings felt grimy after flying through salty sea air and the smog of London, even early in the morning. Sherlock must have heard his entry because not a second later, the man himself was at his door, leaning against the doorframe. Sherlock took one of the few rare chances presented to him to study the anatomy of John's wings out without his usual shirt or jumper obstructing the view.

"Good flight?" Sherlock asked, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"Yes. Bit chilly, though." John replied, answering Sherlock's own infectious smile. "Might take a scarf next time." Sherlock shook his head and pushed off from the doorjamb, entering John's room. John watched Sherlock seat himself on his bed as he slipped on a specially modified singlet that allowed him to have his wings out. John leant against the window he entered through.

"Hmm… yes. It seems winter has arrived early this year." Sherlock took a deep breath in before exhaling quietly. "You smell like… like the sea and the city… and tea and feathers."

"I flew right out to the coast this morning; riding on the updrafts with seagulls." For the last couple of weeks, at Sherlock's suggestion, John has been leaving a couple of nights a week, late at night, and gone flying to stretch his wings, returning early in the morning. "You should come with me some time, Sherlock."

"I don't think you're strong enough for that, John. Your body is designed specifically for _you_ to be able to fly. My extra, added weight could greatly reduce your capacity for flight." Even at quarter to four in the morning, Sherlock's mind is whirring away in the background.

"Sherlock… we've been through this. I'm an angel, not a bird. The physical limitations for a terran bird and a celestial angel, such as myself, are drastically different. Besides, I think you've forgotten I've flown with you before; the afternoon you stepped off the building." Sherlock didn't have a reply, he merely shrugged.

"I don't have time to spare for trivial little day trips to the coast." Sherlock waves his hand in a non-committal manner.

"But you have time to lie around, complaining about being bored and shooting the wall? Something, might I add, that Mrs Hudson _won't _let you get away with." Sherlock raises one delicate eyebrow, smirking. "There's only so much one person can take. Actually, I'm surprised she allows you to keep those ghastly _experiments_ around here. Honestly, heads in the fridge, mummified thumbs in the margarine container…" John trails off as he potters about his room. He turns back to Sherlock, pointing a finger at him. "Speaking of which, that liver that you'd left in the tub of chlorine has started to… decompose. Mrs Hudson asked me to see if you could remove it. You know, potential health hazard and all."

"But the experiment hasn't reached its conclusion yet!" Sherlock's smirk disappeared and, if anything, he looked mildly annoyed.

"Dear God! Did you just whine at me?" John laughed, pausing in making his bed to look at his friend. Sherlock turned sharply and headed for the door.

"Go to sleep!" He shouted before slamming John's door. Though John was smiling in amusement, he winced at his flatmate's loud behaviour. Mrs Hudson was right below them, and being woken at four in the morning was another thing that she simply _wouldn't _stand for. _I'm your landlord, dears, not one of your university friends._

_

* * *

_When John woke again a few hours later, refreshed, it was to Sherlock's violin. Violin usually meant thinking, and thinking more than likely meant a case. And a case meant running all over London, chasing after bad guys; possibly even getting shot. John's wing was still a little tender from Lawson's bullet. Luckily, he and Sherlock apprehended the man a few days after he escaped them on the roof of the office building. During the time it took for Lestrade and his men to arrive at the scene, Sherlock suggested that John got his own back in the form of a solid punch to Lawson's, not inconsiderable, gut.

Half an hour later, after emerging freshly washed and shaven, John went downstairs to the living room. Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, staring at a bunch of photos tacked to the wall above the hearth.

"Good morning." John called. Sherlock didn't move, he simply kept staring at the photos.

"New case, John; the pilot of a cargo plane, James D'Arcy, was shot dead at a military base in Sheffield. He was supposed to be taking supplies, confidential documents and letters for the soldiers in Afghanistan." John sighed and stood beside his friend, looking at the information presented to them. "I'm guessing by the size of the bullet hole in Mr D'Arcy's chest, that he was killed with a gun using 20mm bullets." There was a large gaping mess where D'Arcy's heart should have been. There was no coming back from that. "He was shot at point blank. Whoever killed him had their gun pressed up against his back when they fired."

John shook his head and took a step back. "So far this is just sounding like an ordinary murder. What has got you so interested in this one?" He asked. Sherlock gave him an intense look, one he usually wore when he was in 'case solving mode'.

"He was killed _in_ the base. No CCTV footage of his murder or murderer, no evidence left behind, and D'Arcy has no connections with anyone of importance. The confidential documents he was meant to be carrying weren't anything of importance, and he wasn't killed so they couldn't be delivered because the military only needed to designate another pilot. As far as we know, his heart could have just spontaneously combusted within his chest."

"I highly doubt that is what happened. It's too early for this." John muttered, pulling a face. He disappeared in to the kitchen.

"It's one in the afternoon, John!" Sherlock called "Why would anybody want to kill D'Arcy?" He continued, talking a little more quietly even though John wasn't in the room. Sherlock had stolen his skull back from Mrs Hudson, so he decided to direct his questions to it. Sherlock studied the face of the young man with a hole in his chest. "He's nobody; completely unimportant. Who and why would anybody go the effort of _murdering_ this man _in _a military base?" Suddenly, John reappeared, shrugging on his coat.

"Off out, Sherlock; gotta' get some milk."

"Ah, good idea." Sherlock walked to the door and donned his coat as well.

"You're coming?" John asked, completely shell-shocked. John didn't even think Sherlock knew what a supermarket _was_. Sherlock gives him the look that John's deciphered as 'Of course, you idiot'.

John hails a cab and climbs in, closely followed by the detective. John opens his mouth to speak but is cut off by Sherlock. "Scotland Yard." John, staring, still open mouthed at his friend, gives an incoherent cry of annoyance.

"Sherlock!"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Phones ringing and people talking amongst themselves was the usual soundtrack of Scotland Yard. On time as usual, Sally Donovan flung her first insult of the day at Sherlock and from then on they'd continue to wind each other up right to the moment one of them leaves the premises. One day, Sherlock stayed at the Yard for eight hours, just to get on Donovan's goat.

"Sherlock, good, you're here." Lestrade said, striding through the maze of desks and in-trays.

"Of course." John could never understand why Sherlock, whose only reason for existence seemed to be solving crime puzzles, always sounded so bored when faced with his main source of information; Lestrade. On some occasions though, John thinks he could understand why.

"There's been another one." Lestrade informs them. For once, Sherlock looks confused.

"Another what, Lestrade? Speak with some sort of clarity, would you? I'm getting tired of having to decipher every word that comes out of your mouth. It's tedious." Lestrade looks affronted for a second, but then shakes his head and continues anyway.

"There's been another murder with no traces or connections to anything." Lestrade hands Sherlock a file.

"So, we're dealing with some sort of _really_ good serial killer?" John asks. Lestrade shrugs at him.

"So far, there have only been two of these murders. We can't say it's a serial killer for certain, but it's a possibility." John leans over Sherlock's shoulder and reads the file.

There was the picture of a man who'd obviously been beaten then stabbed to death. A knife protruded from the victim's chest, where his heart is located. His head was smashed in and a dark pool of crimson liquid spread on the concrete like a halo. He didn't seem to be any particular person. It looked like the killer had just chosen some random off the street and beaten him to death.

"The file says this man was killed around three in the morning." John says. Sherlock nods.

"Just some drunken idiot stumbling home from a bar or pub." He mutters. The detective closes the file with a snap and looks at Lestrade for elaboration.

"Uh, there's no CCTV footage of the attack. He must've been dragged out of view of a camera then deposited in front of the post office. Somehow though, he avoided being caught by a camera." Lestrade supplied. Sherlock seemed to think this new information over for a moment before something clicked.

"Hang on, did you say post office?" Lestrade nodded. "Hmm… intriguing."

"Why? What's the problem?" Sherlock shook his head at the Detective Inspector, grinning weirdly.

"No problem, Lestrade. Call me if anything comes up." With that Sherlock twirled dramatically, his coattails flicking about behind him. "Come along, John."

"Bye, Lestrade." The man in question waved half-heartedly at the departing pair, rolling his eyes as Sherlock couldn't help antagonizing Donovan one last time on the way out.

* * *

Sherlock frowned. He bent his neck to the side slightly, trying to see past the thing obstructing his view of the television, without success. He bent even more to the side, nearly horizontal on the arm chair, and finally managed to catch the view of the TV. '_A man was found dead at 5:30 this morning outside an inner-city post office. Police are working on identifying the man. If you have any information, please call this hotline…_' Yet again, John's wings spread out further, getting in the way again.

"John! Do you mind? I can't see." Sherlock barked, thoroughly aggravated. The angel looked behind him.

"Ah. Sorry, Sherlock; I'm getting restless." Almost as if to make a point, John's wings twitched slightly, making all his feathers puff out. John huffed in annoyance, trying to brush them all down again.

"You're getting feathers everywhere!" Sherlock groaned and let his head drop against his knees that were propped up in front of him on the arm chair. "Look, go for a fly. I need some time to myself to think in silence anyway." John looked surprised at Sherlock's gruff tone.

"Really?"

"Please." Sherlock growled, hands steepled under his chin.

"Fine. Sorry for being such a hindrance, Sherlock." John stomped upstairs, discarding his jumper and shirts as he went.

"I didn't mean it like that, John!" The angel didn't seem to hear him, and by the time Sherlock had run up the stairs to John's room, the window was open and all that remained of his pissed off angel friend was a couple of stray feathers on the floor. "Whatever. I have more important things to worry about." He muttered, returning downstairs.

* * *

Sherlock had received a text from Lestrade telling him to meet him at a nearby farm. As he watched the traffic and people on the street go by from in the cab, he wondered where John had gotten to. John hadn't returned the next morning like he usually does when he goes flying. He also wasn't answering his phone. Mind you, that was mainly because it was on the table at home. When Sherlock had discovered that, any of the anger and annoyance he'd previously been feeling towards his friend returned full force. He's probably at _Sarah's_ anyway. Sherlock didn't want to call her place to talk to John, because that would mean talking to _her_ and he found her entirely insufferable and stupid. He couldn't understand why John continued to speak to the woman.

"Don't even _start_, Anderson." Sherlock growled. The forensic scientist barely even got the chance to open his mouth. Sherlock strode right past him, on the war path. "What have you got, Lestrade?" The DI jumped as twenty squawking pigeons starting flapping madly about his head. Sherlock had made his presence known in the small room, as he usually did. But in Lestrade's opinion, as he wiped bird crap off his shoulders and head, slamming the door to the aviary had been a bit much. The look on Sherlock's face stopped Lestrade from saying anything though.

"His daughter found him. John Holloway, forty-seven. He trains carrier pigeons. No links to _anything_. There is no reason for this man to have been murdered." Sherlock took in the messy cage. There was barely enough room for four people to stand inside it, and it was only about a foot higher than Sherlock's head. Bit cramped, really. Especially when it's full of about thirty pigeons. Twenty of which were perched on Lestrade. It would have been an amusing sight if Sherlock wasn't so freaking pissed off.

The man on the floor was a bloody mess. Blood covered nearly the entire floor of the cage and some of it was splattered up one of the walls. Joining the blood pool on the ground were three dead pigeons, all of them had had their wings ripped off.

The man's chest and abdomen had been cut open and most of his intestines were spread out around him. But the one thing that did, or did not, catch Sherlock's eye in all of the mess was the man's heart. Or lack of one. It had been cut out and removed. Some sort of tight feeling began to take hold in his chest and stomach. He bent down, leaning closer to the bloody mess before him. The flesh around where the heart should be was singed. And it all became clear.

'_I will burn the __**heart**__ out of you._'

Sherlock nearly fell over. "It's… I can't b- I've been so_ blind_!" Sherlock growls, tugging at his dark curls. "Oh god. _John!_"

"Yeah, speaking of which," Lestrade pipes up, looking around "where is he?" Sherlock continues, unaware of Lestrade's question as he find himself in a personal turmoil.

"It all makes sense now!" Sherlock says, his voice slightly hysterical as he grabs Lestrade's shoulders.

"Sherlock, what-"

"These murders aren't random! They've all got a theme! _Oh_, I can't _believe_ I've been so thick!"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade shouts, cutting over Sherlock and stopping the other man mid-rant "What the _hell_ are you going on about?"

"The first man, James D'Arcy, he was a pilot. Pilots _fly._ He carried _messages_." Lestrade frowned, trying to understand what Sherlock was getting at. "The second man. He was just some random by-passer. He didn't deserve to die. He was _innocent_. He also died outside a _post office_."

"Where messages are sent, yeah." Lestrade thinks he was starting to get the picture.

"And this man," Sherlock starts quietly, more subdued "he trained carrier pigeons. They send messages. Three of the pigeons have had their _wings_ torn off." Nope, Lestrade had no idea what was going on.

"Sherlock, you're going to need to spell it out for me; I haven't a clue what you're on about."

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes. "John is missing and someone is trying to send me a message."

"Wait, John's missing?" Sherlock was seriously ready to throttle Lestrade. How _slow_ can people be? "Okay. What's the message, Sherlock?"

"Fly. Innocent. Wing. Message." The detective stared hard at Lestrade. "In Catholic mythology, there were innocent, flying beings who looked human and had wings. Their job was to deliver messages from God." Lestrade's eyes widened.

"Angels? Okay, I don't get what that means, but who sent the message?"

"A man I once thought was dead said to me that he would 'burn the heart out of me'. All three victims had something happen to their hearts." Sherlock stopped for a second. "Moriarty has John."


	3. Chapter 3

His entire existence consisted of a mess of swirling grey vision, and far away sounds. His head throbbed like crazy and his limbs felt like they'd been weighed down with lead. Waves of nausea rolled over him and his stomach roiled. With a groan, John managed –after much exertion— to roll his body to the side, aware that if he did vomit while on his back, he could very well choke. That's when he heard a voice that was high pitched and airy, that lilted and wafted through the air like a lullaby.

"Good morning, Sunshine!" A dark, blurry shape moved in to his line of vision. "It's about time you woke up. I've been so very, _very_ worried about you. I had feared that one of my cronies may have hit your head a little too hard." John groaned when the person speaking used their foot to roll him on his back again. John's world spun so severely, he feared me may just fall off the face of the planet. "But," the voice continued, jumping to a note that sounded much too high-pitched for a human voice box "you did just _have_ to go and resist my little medicine, didn't you? I really had no choice but to revert to such… _barbaric_ means."

"Moriarty…" John growled, blinking his eyes rapidly to try and get them to focus.

"John Watson." Moriarty snarled back. John was surprised by how suddenly the other man's personality flipped. All of the happy childlike mannerisms had disappeared, now, a manic glint had found its way in to Moriarty's eyes and John could tell from his voice that the madman was done playing games.

"What do you want from me?" John grunted, searching the sparse, concrete room for a means of escape. Escape, that is, if John could get his weak, heavy body to _move_.

"Your body has been weakened, almost paralysed, John, by a tiny dose of my most _favourite_ of the world's toxins." John already knew what that was.

"Clostridium Botulinum." He groaned.

"Exactly! How smart you are, Johnny Boy. I can see why _he_ keeps you around." Moriarty cheered whilst clapping his hands, happy again. Suddenly, Moriarty crouched down to John's level, seemingly devoid of emotion. _Just like Sherlock_, John realised. _Sherlock!_

"What have you done to him?" John shouted, eyes blazing. He wished Moriarty would just catch fire and _burn_ right now.

"Nothing. For now." John made to start shouting again, but Moriarty cut over him. "Only if he doesn't take heed of my warning."

"What war—oh." Realisation suddenly dawned upon John. "The murders; they were a warning somehow." Moriarty nodded at John's deduction.

"Right again, Doctor Watson. I thought Sherlock would have gotten the message after the first two, but I'm sure the third murder would have given him the message loud and clear." Moriarty's strange English/Irish/American accent had become more pronounced.

"What was the message?" John asked, dreading the answer. He could feel the cold tendrils of fear clawing up his chest to squeeze around his heart.

"Quite simple really," Moriarty sounded bored and almost flippant, before turning deadly serious "'Stay away or John dies'. Surely, not even _Sherlock_ would be careless enough to do something simply _idiotic_ like come charging after me to rescue you."

"Why would he do that?" John questions. He was trying desperately to make it sound like he wasn't expecting Sherlock to do anything of the kind, instead of the fact that he was hoping to G_od_ that's exactly what the Great Detective was doing. "Sherlock doesn't think about anyone but himself. The puzzles are all that matter to him."

For a moment, as Moriarty started pacing around the doctor's prone form, he seemed almost _proud_ of John's last statement, but still, Moriarty shook his head. "I take it to believe, John," Moriarty sighed with dramatic exasperation "that Sherlock considers you his _friend_." Moriarty spat the last word like it was vile and poisonous. "You can't honestly be so _dense_ that you can't see Sherlock treats you differently to every other human he makes contact with? He makes exceptions for you. He doesn't for anyone else."

John narrowed his eyes at his captor "Does that make you jealous, Jim?" Moriarty glared back at John. If looks could kill, John would be dead.

* * *

As far as Sherlock's concerned, there's nothing that could stop him from getting to Moriarty. The psycho could throw every assassin, minion and dollar he has in his disposal at Sherlock, and it would do nothing to stop the detective from getting his friend back, and sending Moriarty to where he belongs. Hell.

"Sherlock! Would you bloody _listen_ to me?" He wakes from his daze and slowly looks up at Lestrade, ignoring Donovan's annoying, shit-eating grin.

"What?" He sighs, sounding decidedly bored and annoyed. Lestrade frowns at him, irritated.

"I need you to stop being a moody bastard for five minutes and tell me exactly _why_ Moriarty wants John." Lestrade raises his finger as Sherlock opens his mouth "And don't lie to me. If you want John back, you're going to have to co-operate with me."

Sherlock raises his eyebrow and allows a small smirk to creep on to his face, glancing quickly at Sally in the corner. "Fine. John is an angel. He was killed in a war in another dimension, woke up in a hotel and less than two hours later, he moved in with me. Moriarty, as would most people, finds this extremely interesting and probably wants to experiment on John. The fact that he is my friend is just the icing on the cake for Moriarty."

Lestrade stared blankly at Sherlock, silent for a few seconds as the information tried to make its way through his thick skull to his brain.

"I told you he was a psychopath. He probably kidnapped John himself." Donovan all but sing-songed from her little corner. Lestrade sent her a disapproving glare.

"I told you not to lie to me, Sherlock. You don't want our help? Fine." The Detective Inspector turned to leave. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I'm not lying, Lestrade. What would I have to gain from that?" Lestrade stopped at the exit from the examination room they had adjourned to. "Think about it. I told you that the message in the murders was 'angel'. I personally _know_ John is an angel. Why else would Moriarty want John? He knows hundreds of other ways of getting to me."

Lestrade sighed and shook his head, staring at his far too shiny, cheap shoes. He was definitely getting too old for this. He let his head hang from his shoulders for a moment, in resignation, and turned around to look at the man reclined in the small plastic chair with his expensive Italian shoes resting on the metal examination table, hands folded across his stomach. The other man's suit was immaculate, as always, and the deep burgundy dress shirt had pulled tight over the young man's skinny chest. His whole atmosphere was calm and collected, but Lestrade knew that underneath, the man was on edge, seething, and about to snap. Sherlock was wearing the grin he got when he knew he'd won. Smug bastard.

"How would Moriarty know that John is an… angel?" He asked. Sherlock's expression turned hard and a faint frown appeared.

"That's probably my fault. John gets restless sometimes. So, I told him that every so often, when the urge takes him, he should leave late at night and take to the skies, as long as he returns before sun up." Sherlock swung his legs off the table and stood, adjusting his suit. "Knowing Moriarty, the man probably has access to CCTV and probably even air traffic radars."

"You're saying you think that Moriarty saw him when he was flying?" Lestrade asked. Donovan baulked.

"You don't actually believe him, do you, Inspector?" She squawked.

"What else is there to go off, Sally?"

"But… angels? _Seriously? _Sir, this is insane!" She's only a step away from stamping her foot and throwing a tantrum, Sherlock thought to himself, annoyed by her distraction.

"Where's Anderson, Sally? Surely, he could use your _help_ examining the difference carpet fibres can have on human skin after prolonged contact and friction?" Sherlock celebrated a small internal victory as Donovan turned a particular shade of red and Lestrade looked very surprised.

"Piss off, Freak." She barked at Sherlock, who already had another insult lined up.

"Sally!" Lestrade interrupted the two adults squabbling like children. "Sherlock, you know better than to act like that. Detective Donovan, I'll talk to you later, for now, I think its best you _leave_." Fuming, she left without a word. Lestrade turned back to Sherlock who was smiling serenely, hands tucked in his pockets. "Don't you have more pressing matters to attend to, opposed to baiting Sally?" Sherlock merely shrugged.

"I can multitask." He said. Lestrade nodded.

"So… how does John hide his wings? Obviously, I've never seen them before." Sherlock looked at Lestrade.


	4. Chapter 4

"I know what you are." The darkness and warmth was fading again. Great.

"Brilliant. Do you think you could clue me in?" John moaned, trying to hold back the urge to vomit. His brain was all scrambled and fuzzy.

"Don't bother trying to hide it, John. I've _seen_ you." Moriarty showed John some blurry images on an expensive looking laptop. It looked like a giant bird swooped down and caught someone who had fallen off a building. It took a few seconds for John's eyes and brain to adjust and catch up, but he realised that it was him catching Sherlock the first day John had shown his true self to his best friend.

John looked away and took in his surroundings. They had changed since his last bout of consciousness. At least he had a bed now, even though it was a hospital bed and his arms and legs had been restrained to the bars on each side by handcuffs. Still… better than waking up on cold, damp concrete in some random warehouse. He noticed the IV drip in his hand. It's just a saline solution and vitamins for now, but this is Moriarty, so that will probably change, John thinks to himself.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Moriarty." John sighed, feigning disinterest. He knows he's doing well, because he learnt from the best.

"What do you call this then, Johnny? What is it, short of divine intervention?" Moriarty sighed and closed the laptop with a snap, causing John to flinch, when he didn't speak. "We're not going to last very long together—"

"I certainly hope not!" John interrupted.

"—if you don't co-operate." Moriarty continued angrily, taking deep breaths to calm himself.

"It must be hard being a psychopath." John giggled "Hard not to blow a gasket, when dealing with _stupid_ people."

Moriarty leered at John, chuckling coolly. "For someone who's been drugged for two days and is restrained to a hospital bed by a '_psychopath _' who won't hesitate in killing you, you don't seem very afraid."

"I don't have anything to be afraid of." John said. "I've been through the war, seen people die and I've been a POW before; two weeks. Besides," John sighed, sounding deliberately unaffected to get to Moriarty who _relied _on John's reaction to this "I know you won't kill me. _I_ don't have anything to be afraid of, because while you're not afraid of killing me, you _are_ afraid of what will happen _when_ you kill me." Moriarty smiled arrogantly, shaking his head "You're afraid of what Sherlock will do when he finds out I'm dead." Moriarty's arrogant sneer disappeared. He pulled a syringe out of a little black pouch from his pocket.

As Moriarty leant close to inject him with the solution John knew would make him feel good before waking up feeling _really_ bad, the man whispered in his ear. "I don't know how you hide it, John, but I will make you show me what you are, and you won't like what I do when that happens."

John fixed Moriarty with the dirtiest glare he was capable of. "We'll see." John grunted, before getting lost on tides of euphoria and dancing colours.

* * *

It had been four days since John's disappearance, and Sherlock was no closer to finding John's whereabouts. Mrs Hudson knocked on the door, peeking her head inside.

"Yoo-hoo!" Sherlock's head whipped around, sighing when he saw it was only his landlord.

"Good evening, Mrs Hudson. Is there something you want?" He stood from his position crouched in his chair, and padded across the room in his pyjamas and blue robe to meet the old lady at the door.

"This came for you. You never check your mail, and John still hasn't returned home to collect it, so I thought I'd better bring it up for you." She handed Sherlock an envelope with his name scrawled on the front in messier than usual doctor's handwriting. _John_. Sherlock sighed as he opened the envelope. Before he pulled out the contents he turned his attention to Mrs Hudson who was nosily waiting for Sherlock to pull out whatever was inside.

"John has been kidnapped by the greatest criminal of our time. I don't suspect he will be home for quite some time." Sherlock slammed the door, not quite in her face, but enough to let her on to the fact that he didn't want to be disturbed. He still heard her surprised gasp at the information Sherlock unkindly unloaded on her from the other side of the door.

Back in his seat, he glanced across at the armchair opposite his, with the old union jack cushion on the seat. With baited breath, Sherlock slipped his fingers in to the envelope and pulled out whatever was inside. As soon as his fingers brushed against the beautifully soft object he sighed. He extracted an old feather from the pocket of his dressing gown and compared it to the one inside the envelope. He didn't need to, though – he'd know John's feathers anywhere.

* * *

John gasped and writhed, his body twisting at unnatural angles on the bed. His wrists and ankles bled from being rubbed raw by the handcuffs. Fire flooded his veins and an unbearable agony, pain like never before clawed at John's chest, itching in his brain. He needed _more. Now._

"You're supposed to be the embodiment of innocence, aren't you?" Moriarty grinned, caressing John's wings that spread out underneath him. "But you're not innocent are you?" Moriarty's high pitched voice sounded like nails being scratched down a chalkboard to John, and made him groan as it amplified in his head and reverberated behind his eyes. "You've killed before. _Naughty angel!_" Moriarty gasped. "You killed that cabbie. Shot him in the back."

"He w-was killin' other people!" John nearly shouted, whining as his body flooded with pain. Withdrawal is definitely a bitch, he decided. "He was going t-to kill Sherlock."

"I don't see the problem with that." Moriarty giggled "Guardian angel?" He asked, finger against his lips as he paced in front of John's bed. John shook his head, gasping out a 'no' as violent cramps ravaged his body. "But you are! You protect Sherlock."

"I'm not even an angel!" John shouted, tugging violently at his restraints. He was trying to reach the syringe filled with whatever it is Moriarty had been drugging him with, placed _just_ so that he can't reach.

"What else could you _possibly_ be then, Johnny Boy? You have big, white wings, you don't have a bad bone in your body – except that one that lets you shoot badly behaved cabbies – and you come from a different plane of existence. If you're not an angel, what are you?" John didn't reply, he just screamed as he tugged harder, uncaring as blood poured freely from his wrists. "Ah, at least now I know that my little experiment works." Moriarty plucked the needle off the table "Dihydral morphine. You're a doctor, or at least, supposed to be, aren't you, John? Therefore, you should know that this is an extract of Opium. By my calculations, this drug is at least five times stronger and ten times more addictive than normal morphine. Thanks ever so much for being my guinnea pig." Moriarty injected the milky white liquid in to John's needle scarred arm. John sighed and his spasms and screaming stopped. "Hey, do tell me if you come up with some sort of _catchy_ name for the kiddy-winks will you? They need something simple to remember when their brains begin to rot. I was thinking maybe _Bliss_? What do you think?"

Nothing. John was thinking absolutely nothing as his body all but gave up. He could feel his heartbeat begin to slow dangerously. The part of his brain with all his medical knowledge was trying to send him alerts, but the rest of him didn't care. He was floating on bliss and he couldn't care less what Moriarty did to him. Moriarty could probably kill him now, and John would thank him. Though, he would be annoyed that he couldn't say goodbye to Sherlock. But, it has been five days and Sherlock hasn't come to rescue him. Maybe they weren't as good friends as he originally thought? Oh well. Right now, he just didn't _care._

_

* * *

_His mobile sat innocently on the table in front of Sherlock. Was he really _that_ desperate? He thought back to the feather he got. Moriarty has somehow gotten John to reveal himself, which means that John is in serious trouble. He has no leads to go off, and he's lost as for a clue what to do. If rescuing John from Moriarty's evil clutches meant swallowing his pride, he figured that now would be as good time as ever. Sherlock took the phone off the table and pressed the first button. There was a knock at the door. He sighed and answered the door.

"Good afternoon, Mycroft."


	5. Chapter 5

_Two days earlier_

Sweat dripped down John's spine, he was boiling hot, but at the same time, cold air pricked his skin uncomfortably and made him shiver – thanks to Moriarty removing his shirt. His teeth chattered as he shivered and his body convulsed with excruciating cramps. Luckily, through all of this, his head was swimming and he only seemed to be half aware of what was actually happening. All he knew was that he was hanging by his wrists from a rope attached to the ceiling and he needed another injection like five minutes ago. The devil himself entered the room and John groaned sickly as Moriarty twisted him around, causing the room to spin and the rope to tighten around his wrists.

"I can make you feel better, John. I have the syringe right here. Just show me what I want." Moriarty brandished the needle to show John he wasn't lying and waited for his answer.

"Burn." John grunted, grinding his teeth against the urge to just grab the syringe and inject himself.

"Okay. See you in a few hours." Moriarty spun on the soles of his thousand pound shoes. A victorious smile plastered itself on the crime lord's face as he heard a sound akin to a flock of birds taking flight. Moriarty faced his prisoner again, rubbing his hand together.

For an angel, he was definitely a sad sight. John's massive wings hung limply from his shoulders and already a few feathers had fallen to the floor. It was a strange sight, a dying angel, hanging from the ceiling by its wrists – it made Moriarty feel giddy with pleasure from the sight.

"Drug…" John groaned, dying just a little more inside at his dependency on Moriarty's concoction. Moriarty grinned and stepped forward.

"Good boy. Now… time to begin the tests."

* * *

_Present day_

Moriarty studied the two x-rays, one of John as a human and one as an angel. "How do you get your wings to disappear, John?" Moriarty holds the two pieces of black film up to the harsh fluorescent light above them. "As a human, there is absolutely no indication of any spare extremities. But in your angelic form, your wings look like they've been there through millions of years of evolution. They're perfect." Moriarty puts the film on the bed. "And your bones! They're like a bird's – strong but hollow. You are in every way the result of perfect evolution." John's eyes fluttered as he tried to decipher Moriarty's fast speech and follow his rapid movements across the room. "How do you do it? Magic? Is there such a thing? I think in light of the fact you are an _angel_ from another dimension, magic could be entirely plausible!"

"Get on the floor!" A gunshot echoed through the room, causing Moriarty to jump and John to cry out as he accidently pulled on his restraints in shock, reopening the wounds on his wrists. Four burly men in black suits and sunglasses barged in to the room, tackling Moriarty to the floor and restraining him.

"I'm hallucinating… gotta be." John mumbled to himself, he turned his head to the left and sure enough, at the door stood Lestrade, Sherlock and scarily enough, Mycroft. Sherlock crossed the room, instantly setting to work on undoing John's handcuff restraints. Sherlock ignores Moriarty's mental screeches as he tries to resist the four _massive_ men dragging him towards Mycroft. Sherlock trusts Mycroft will deal with Moriarty in accordance to all the pain, destruction and death he'd caused. "Are you real, Sherlock?"

"I certainly hope so." Sherlock carefully peeled the metal away from John's torn up wrists, wincing.

"We going home?" He moved away from John's arms, down to his legs. "Sherlock?"

"You have to go to hospital, John." Sherlock finally says, putting his arm behind John's back, careful of the man's wings and helping him up. John leans all his weight on Sherlock and the other man grunts under his weight. He was thankful John had bird bones; otherwise he'd be unable to support his friend.

"I'm okay. Can we go home? Please?"

"Sorry, John. Moriarty's drugged you with something—"

"Dihydral morphine." John tells him in a moment of clarity.

"Right. You need to be treated for withdrawal. You of all people, John, should know that with severe addictions, untreated withdrawal can be potentially life-threatening." Sherlock finally locked eyes with John, slightly surprised when he notices exactly how unfocused and glazed they are. "I can't look after you. I promise though, that Mycroft will give you the best treatment possible and you'll be home before you know it."

"But my win—"

"Don't worry yourself, Doctor Watson. You'll be in the best possible care." Mycroft gives one of his slightly creepy smiles that John was sure Mycroft thought was reassuring. It did little to quell John's anxiety. He just wants to go _home_.

* * *

_**Three weeks later**_

"And so ends another chapter in the life of Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock looks at the angel standing at the door and smiles; he stands to greet his friend with a warm hug.

"Right you are, John. Moriarty has been knocked from his position at the top of the crime world, but someone will take his place, and it'll all begin again." Lestrade waited patiently behind John as the two friends greeted each other again.

"And I can't wait for the two of you to get back to work." Lestrade gives John and Sherlock a mock salute and heads down the stairs calling "I'll expect to see you two in my office tomorrow morning. We've already got a few strange cases that might need a mind like yours, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, Lestrade, thanks for the lift!" John grinned as he turned back to Sherlock, obviously glad to be home and no longer in the rehab clinic.

"I expect Mycroft took care of you?" Sherlock asked, eyeing the scars on the inner elbow of John's bare arms. He forced himself to ignore the reminder of one of the most worrying weeks of his life, and concentrate on the fact that John had been returned to him relatively unharmed.

"He did, yes. I think I'll be in his debt for quite a while to come." The large white wings on John's back twitched again, a couple of stray feathers falling to the floor. John fought to restrain a giggle. "It's been _three weeks, _Sherlock. I'm desperate." How could Sherlock say no?

* * *

And that is how Sherlock Holmes found himself being carried through London's night sky by an angel who also happened to be his best friend. John rose above the clouds with a few beats of his powerful wings. Sherlock dropped his hand and let it trail through the clouds flying past below him, leaving swirling trails in the cloud in his wake. On the horizon, the sun began to rise above the whiteness, casting everything in a beautiful orange glow. John was glad to share this secret part of the morning with his best friend.

* * *

**AN: Reviews mean cookies. Everybody likes cookies. ^_^ Constrctive criticism is welcomed. Thanks for reading more than anything.**


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